61. {1shot} [ga/pp] (owen) of silent charades and hand grenades
Title: of silent charades and hand grenades
Author: onlywordsnow
Characters/Pairing: Owen; mentions of Owen/Cristina, Owen/Teddy, Mark/Teddy
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 6x19, sympathy for the parents
Words: 1,234
--
His body and his mind are reacting like a fucking lightening storm meeting thunder in the wind - he doesn’t know where to go, but he’s drawn to this magnetic energy that is beyond familiar.
Just like that, he ends up sitting a few seats away from Teddy at the bar. She’s so close but so far away, he realizes, as Mark leans toward her with a forced smug grin and her forlorn gaze returns to normal. He never thought that when he needed someone, he’d end up alone on a barstool with an empty glass clutched between his fingertips.
- It isn’t the end of the world, by any means, it just feels like it.
He’s afraid of her and she’s afraid of him; he can’t fall asleep at night because everything reminds him of the war. The travesty of it all is that he stares at his hands with disdain, thinking that if he can just ravage them from his arms then he can continue to live his life. -
--
He gives up on the alcohol as a crutch after one beer, no longer able to stomach the interaction between Teddy and Mark existing almost like he never had. He slams a Hamilton onto the counter and disrupts the echoes of drunken slurs throughout the room, and his eyes linger over her; her forlorn gaze returns - he realizes that he’s the only thing standing in the way of her happiness.
He makes his way across the street, the familiar route one that his feet can carry without his eyes being aware of his surroundings, because he no longer has a legal place to live. When he got all caught up in the in between (in the after, if he’s really thinking about it), he let his apartment lease run out and succumbed almost everything but his clothing to that place like it was a godforsaken black hole. He can’t look at Cristina when he quietly closes her apartment door behind him so he waits until she drifts to sleep.
He sets up camp on the couch, staring at his hands like they’re a deadly weapon; after all, that’s when everything changed.
--
At two o’clock, he hears bodies slam against the door across the hall; his body aches and his dick hops a beat like it’s trying to tell him something.
His eyes darken with lust as his mind races to her blonde locks raveling around fingertips that don’t necessarily belong to him. His lethal hands take shape around his dick and he tugs like he isn’t on his girlfriend’s couch while thinking of the skin belonging to another woman. At the moment, he can’t fathom the irony in the least.
--
At four o’clock he hears the door shut across the hall and instinctively jumps to his feet, pulling his jeans up his legs and covering the bunch in his boxers. He pulls open the door in a rush like there’s a fire and it takes her by surprise; she nearly crashes into the wall as he comes up behind her. He wants to apologize, but he can’t.
Instead, he cocks his jaw and bites back a scream.
(“You never should have told me you love me.”)
He isn’t blameless here, he knows, he just isn’t ready to give her up.
(“You never should have loved me back.”)
His eyes settle on his shaking hands and he remembers why he’s chasing her down.
--
“I need another perspective,” he utters into the still air between them.
She tucks her hair behind her ear and swallows. His eyes trace her neck like it speaks words of wisdom before they rise to meet hers. Dying has never been easy.
She idles tiredly from hours of fucking while he was jerking off into his boxers. “Shoot.”
“Should it be this hard?” His eyes lock on hers and their gaze lingers for far too long.
She’s the first to look away. He shifts uncomfortably in his pants as they chafe.
“No, but it is,” she replies simply. She’s gone before he can form a rebuttal.
--
A couple of hours later, he paces outside of Dr. Wyatt’s office like he’s waiting to be reprimanded, and he thinks that maybe he is because he knows that he’s handled this all wrong. He isn’t even doing this for the right reasons anymore. He loves her so much that he’ll suffocate himself, returning to the ghost that he once was when she doesn’t really understand him anymore.
He feels like a ghost again because even Cristina doesn’t see him. - The only other person who did he won’t let see him anymore.
Doctor Wyatt opens her office door to wave him in; he locks eyes with her and he stills like a deer in headlights. His eyes eventually fall to his hands and he thinks he’d prefer to saw them off before catching the judgmental stares, especially from a shrink. Her hand clutches the door knob in preparation for his arrival.
His feet carry him in the other direction.
--
Somehow he ends up at Teddy’s door instead of Cristina’s, putting his face in hers because he doesn’t know how to put space between them anymore. He can see the look in her eyes - she isn’t afraid, she’s just done. His forehead brushes against hers as his eyes trail back down to his hands; he briefly thinks that if he were to kill her now, he’ll kill the memories haunting him and he can continue living his life.
Her hand lightly touches his chest and pushes him away. He’s reminded of all of the rights he’s lost with her, all of the ways he doesn’t reserve the right to call her his friend. But he needs her because she understands.
“I need my friend,” he says simply. He’s dying on the inside because he doesn’t even know who he is anymore. “I need you to understand.”
“I understand, Owen, but I can’t - you can’t,” she lightly shakes her head and steps back. She creates more space between them than he can recall ever being there. He’s on the outside looking in. He leaves without another word, her smothering gaze boring holes in his retreating form.
--
He clutches a bottle of scotch at the neck and stumbles into the hallway between the two apartments. He ponders slamming his fist into Mark’s door and telling him to fucking leave Teddy alone because he isn’t good for her, but he thinks that it may be a lie he would spat in his face. His balls tighten and he slams his fist into Mark’s door, no longer able to keep silent.
His throat closes as the door swings open, and Mark looks smug as he takes in the mess before him. He drops the bottle to the floor and silently vows to wipe that smug grin off of his face. His fist soars into Mark’s jaw and he almost forgets what he’s fighting for.
“What the hell?”
He feels Mark’s fingers wrap around the lapel of his jacket as he swings, fist colliding with his cheekbone. The pain immediately screams out of his face as Mark pushes him back into Cristina’s door. Mark’s door slams in his face and he thinks that he doesn’t blame the guy.
--
With split knuckles, he drags the back of his hand down Cristina’s face.
Author: onlywordsnow
Characters/Pairing: Owen; mentions of Owen/Cristina, Owen/Teddy, Mark/Teddy
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 6x19, sympathy for the parents
Words: 1,234
--
His body and his mind are reacting like a fucking lightening storm meeting thunder in the wind - he doesn’t know where to go, but he’s drawn to this magnetic energy that is beyond familiar.
Just like that, he ends up sitting a few seats away from Teddy at the bar. She’s so close but so far away, he realizes, as Mark leans toward her with a forced smug grin and her forlorn gaze returns to normal. He never thought that when he needed someone, he’d end up alone on a barstool with an empty glass clutched between his fingertips.
- It isn’t the end of the world, by any means, it just feels like it.
He’s afraid of her and she’s afraid of him; he can’t fall asleep at night because everything reminds him of the war. The travesty of it all is that he stares at his hands with disdain, thinking that if he can just ravage them from his arms then he can continue to live his life. -
--
He gives up on the alcohol as a crutch after one beer, no longer able to stomach the interaction between Teddy and Mark existing almost like he never had. He slams a Hamilton onto the counter and disrupts the echoes of drunken slurs throughout the room, and his eyes linger over her; her forlorn gaze returns - he realizes that he’s the only thing standing in the way of her happiness.
He makes his way across the street, the familiar route one that his feet can carry without his eyes being aware of his surroundings, because he no longer has a legal place to live. When he got all caught up in the in between (in the after, if he’s really thinking about it), he let his apartment lease run out and succumbed almost everything but his clothing to that place like it was a godforsaken black hole. He can’t look at Cristina when he quietly closes her apartment door behind him so he waits until she drifts to sleep.
He sets up camp on the couch, staring at his hands like they’re a deadly weapon; after all, that’s when everything changed.
--
At two o’clock, he hears bodies slam against the door across the hall; his body aches and his dick hops a beat like it’s trying to tell him something.
His eyes darken with lust as his mind races to her blonde locks raveling around fingertips that don’t necessarily belong to him. His lethal hands take shape around his dick and he tugs like he isn’t on his girlfriend’s couch while thinking of the skin belonging to another woman. At the moment, he can’t fathom the irony in the least.
--
At four o’clock he hears the door shut across the hall and instinctively jumps to his feet, pulling his jeans up his legs and covering the bunch in his boxers. He pulls open the door in a rush like there’s a fire and it takes her by surprise; she nearly crashes into the wall as he comes up behind her. He wants to apologize, but he can’t.
Instead, he cocks his jaw and bites back a scream.
(“You never should have told me you love me.”)
He isn’t blameless here, he knows, he just isn’t ready to give her up.
(“You never should have loved me back.”)
His eyes settle on his shaking hands and he remembers why he’s chasing her down.
--
“I need another perspective,” he utters into the still air between them.
She tucks her hair behind her ear and swallows. His eyes trace her neck like it speaks words of wisdom before they rise to meet hers. Dying has never been easy.
She idles tiredly from hours of fucking while he was jerking off into his boxers. “Shoot.”
“Should it be this hard?” His eyes lock on hers and their gaze lingers for far too long.
She’s the first to look away. He shifts uncomfortably in his pants as they chafe.
“No, but it is,” she replies simply. She’s gone before he can form a rebuttal.
--
A couple of hours later, he paces outside of Dr. Wyatt’s office like he’s waiting to be reprimanded, and he thinks that maybe he is because he knows that he’s handled this all wrong. He isn’t even doing this for the right reasons anymore. He loves her so much that he’ll suffocate himself, returning to the ghost that he once was when she doesn’t really understand him anymore.
He feels like a ghost again because even Cristina doesn’t see him. - The only other person who did he won’t let see him anymore.
Doctor Wyatt opens her office door to wave him in; he locks eyes with her and he stills like a deer in headlights. His eyes eventually fall to his hands and he thinks he’d prefer to saw them off before catching the judgmental stares, especially from a shrink. Her hand clutches the door knob in preparation for his arrival.
His feet carry him in the other direction.
--
Somehow he ends up at Teddy’s door instead of Cristina’s, putting his face in hers because he doesn’t know how to put space between them anymore. He can see the look in her eyes - she isn’t afraid, she’s just done. His forehead brushes against hers as his eyes trail back down to his hands; he briefly thinks that if he were to kill her now, he’ll kill the memories haunting him and he can continue living his life.
Her hand lightly touches his chest and pushes him away. He’s reminded of all of the rights he’s lost with her, all of the ways he doesn’t reserve the right to call her his friend. But he needs her because she understands.
“I need my friend,” he says simply. He’s dying on the inside because he doesn’t even know who he is anymore. “I need you to understand.”
“I understand, Owen, but I can’t - you can’t,” she lightly shakes her head and steps back. She creates more space between them than he can recall ever being there. He’s on the outside looking in. He leaves without another word, her smothering gaze boring holes in his retreating form.
--
He clutches a bottle of scotch at the neck and stumbles into the hallway between the two apartments. He ponders slamming his fist into Mark’s door and telling him to fucking leave Teddy alone because he isn’t good for her, but he thinks that it may be a lie he would spat in his face. His balls tighten and he slams his fist into Mark’s door, no longer able to keep silent.
His throat closes as the door swings open, and Mark looks smug as he takes in the mess before him. He drops the bottle to the floor and silently vows to wipe that smug grin off of his face. His fist soars into Mark’s jaw and he almost forgets what he’s fighting for.
“What the hell?”
He feels Mark’s fingers wrap around the lapel of his jacket as he swings, fist colliding with his cheekbone. The pain immediately screams out of his face as Mark pushes him back into Cristina’s door. Mark’s door slams in his face and he thinks that he doesn’t blame the guy.
--
With split knuckles, he drags the back of his hand down Cristina’s face.